Standing in front of the mirror, you smoothed an imaginary wrinkle from your outfit and told yourself it was because this was different. This was not a chance encounter anymore. This was not just a reckless decision made after having a few drinks, to soothe a bruised ego.

This was a date. An actual date with a man who fucked you like a god, and wanted more, wanted you.

The doorbell rang at precisely seven o’clock.

Of course he was on time. From what you had seen so far, it would have surprised you if he was not. You took one final look in the mirror and smiled, before rushing to open the door.

And immediately forgot every coherent thought and anything you were about to say.

Maekar stood on the other side, one hand tucked in the pocket of a dark coat. He looked entirely too handsome for a man who seemed permanently irritated by the existence of other people.

In his other hand he held a bouquet of the freshest roses you have ever seen. 

For a second, you simply stared. He cleared his throat. 

“These are for you.”

The gesture was so unexpectedly sweet that it caught you completely off guard. Your cheeks warmed.

“They are beautiful.” You accepted them carefully before leaning forward to kiss his cheek. “Thank you. I am just going to put them in a vase, will be right back!” 

You disappeared inside to find a vase, trying very hard not to smile even wider.

When you returned, Maekar’s eyes immediately found yours. His gaze softened almost immediately. The change was subtle, but you noticed it.

And, annoyingly, so did your heart.

“You look nice.” He said.

Not beautiful, not stunning, just nice. That coming from someone else would have been underwhelming. But coming from him, it felt sincere and more genuine than any elaborate compliment ever could. 

“You do not look too bad yourself.” You smiled. “Like you managed to get some proper rest after last night.”

He scoffed, but you could see his mouth twitch.

“Brat…” He muttered under his breath, making you giggle slightly.

When you got to the car, he opened the door for you.

“Where did you get your manners? Before Aegon's Conquest?”

Maekar gave you a long look. “Just get in the fucking car.”

You laughed and obeyed.

You liked that he was a gentleman. A grumpy gentleman.

The drive should have been awkward. You had known Maekar for barely twenty four hours and you slept with him. Now you were sitting in his passenger seat while he drove you to dinner like this was a completely normal progression of events.

Instead, it felt strangely easy.

The city drifted past outside the windows as Maekar navigated traffic with the same focused concentration he seemed to apply to everything else in life.

You stared shamelessly at him. His large hands rested loosely on the steering wheel. His brows were furrowed in concentration, though to be honest you suspected it looked like that even when he was relaxed.

“You know…” You said eventually. “For someone who spent most of last night acting like talking to me was a burden, you seem awfully committed to this date.”

“I warned you, I do not do things halfway.”

“Oh, that is so romantic of you.” You could not help but tease.

“You got flowers.”

“That is just one thing.”

“And now I am taking you out to dinner.”

“You are really setting the standard high, old man.”

A loud scoff escaped him, and you took that as a victory.

Silence settled comfortably for a few moments after that. The city drifted past the windows and you found yourself studying him again.

The lines at the corners of his eyes, his neat silver-blond beard, the strong line of his jaw, the broad shoulders that filled out his coat. He was definitely older than you would usually go for a man, but you did not mind.

Your gaze drifted lower then, almost unconsciously. There was no wedding ring. You noticed it the night before, and you noticed it again now.

But a man like Maekar did not simply exist in a vacuum. There had to be some history, past relationships, a marriage perhaps. An entire life you had yet to learn more of.

The thought lingered for a moment before curiosity got the better of you.

“Do you have kids?”

Maekar sighed immediately.

“What?” You asked, confused. 

“Nothing good has ever followed that question.”

“You are just being dramatic.” You retorted. 

“No, I am not.”

“Yes, you are.” You pouted. “Come on, tell me!”

His fingers tapped once against the steering wheel, as if he was contemplating whether answering was worth the headache.

“Six.” He almost whispered. 

You stared. “What?”

“I have six children.”

You nearly choked. “Six?!”

“Yes.”

“Six actual human children?”

His expression flattened. “No, I have six dragon children.”

A laugh escaped you before you could stop it. “Holy shit, Maekar!”

“You fucking asked. No need to make a big deal out of it.”

“Six children?” You repeated.

“Yes.”

His jaw tightened and he stared at the road. You leaned back in the seat, whistling.

“That explains so much.”

He shot you a look. “Explains what?”

“The permanent scowl. It is there because you have spent years arguing with younger versions of yourself.”

He rolled his eyes, but you could see he was fighting a smile. Warmth spread in your chest at that. Then another thought occurred to you. 

“Which one is your favourite?”

Maekar just stared at you. “I do not have a favourite one.”

“Oh, you absolutely do.”

“No.”

“Come on. You know exactly which one.”

“I am not continuing this conversation.”

“Coward.” 

His grip tightened on the steering wheel.

“Fine, different question then!” You grinned. “How much do you know about them?”

He frowned.

“What kind of fucking question is that?”

“A normal one.”

“It is not.”

“It is. Humour me, please!”

Maekar sighed again.

“I know their birthdays.”

You nodded. “That is a good start.”

“Their favorite foods, and their allergies.”

“Expected.” Your smile softened slightly.

“The books they liked as children. The movies they still pretend not to like. I know which one calls when something goes wrong and which one pretends nothing is wrong until it has become a disaster.”

Something warm settled in your chest, because he answered without hesitation, without having to think. It was like those details lived permanently inside him.

You looked at him for a long moment.

“What?” He asked.

You shook your head.

“No, it is just…” You looked out the window briefly before glancing back at him. “You have no idea how incredibly attractive this is.”

The silence that followed was immediate, and you watched the tips of his ears turn red. Actually bright red. For one beautiful second, Maekar Targaryen looked completely caught off guard.

“Are you blushing?”

“Stop it.” He almost growled.

Your grin widened and his ears grew redder. And for the rest of the drive, Maekar refused to look at you.

The restaurant Maekar had chosen was nothing like the one where you had spent forty-something humiliating minutes waiting for a man who never arrived.

This place was quieter, the lighting was soft without being dim and the tables were spaced far enough apart to allow privacy. The low murmur of conversation never rose high enough to become distracting.

It felt like the type a restaurant someone like Maekar would choose because they genuinely liked it, not because it was currently fashionable.

This realization should not have affected you, but it did, because it meant he had put thought into this, into you.

The hostess greeted him by his surname. You immediately looked at him, following him to your table.

“She knew you. Do you come here often?”

“Not that much, no.”

Dinner unfolded slowly after that. It was mostly you who spoke, because he was not the sort of man who filled silence simply because it existed.

But when he spoke, you listened. And when you spoke, he listened too. And not the polite kind where someone nods while waiting for their turn to speak. The real kind, the kind that made you feel like every word mattered.

You told him about Rowan’s inability to mind her own business.

“She sounds exhausting.” He grumbled.

“She can be sometimes.” You nodded, sipping your wine. 

“Yet you are friends with her.”

“She is my best friend, and I love her.”

“Hmm.”

You narrowed your eyes. “What does that mean?”

“It means you are also exhausting.”

You nearly dropped your glass. “Excuse you, I am delightful!”

“You are relentless.”

“That does not sound like a compliment.”

“It was not.”

You could not help but laugh at his honesty.

Later, the conversation drifted toward books, then travel, then work. Then somehow to memories. You discovered Maekar spent years coaching various sports teams because one child had joined and the others eventually followed.

“Are you telling me you volunteered for that?”

“Fuck no, I was coerced.”

“By your children?”

“They are surprisingly effective negotiators, the little fuckers.”

You laughed. The sound earned one of those rare, fleeting smiles from him. And suddenly you wanted another one, then another. 

You found yourself watching him while he spoke, the movement of his hands. The slight furrow between his brows whenever he concentrated. The dry humor that appeared unexpectedly and disappeared just as quickly.

Every glimpse beneath the stoic exterior only seemed to make the problem worse.

Because for the life of you, you could not understand why you suddenly wanted more. Not just another date, or more attention.

You truly wanted more of him, his thoughts, his company, his opinions. You wanted to know what made him laugh when nobody was watching. Whether he made coffee before breakfast or after. Whether he was impossible to deal with when he got sick. Whether he let people take care of him at all.

The thoughts arrived completely uninvited. And once they started, they refused to leave.

It was absurd. You had known him for barely more than twenty four hours. That was nothing, a blink, a moment. 

And yet every time he looked at you, every time he remembered some small detail you had mentioned, every time that guarded expression softened for half a second, you found yourself wanting to know what existed underneath all of it.

By the time dinner ended, you felt slightly unsteady. Not because of the wine, though you were sure it had not helped, but because of him.

The drive back was quieter than the rest of the evening. The city slid past in soft streaks of gold and white. Maekar drove with the same steady focus. Every now and then, you caught him glancing at you, and you would glance at him. 

When you finally reached your building, the car rolled to a stop and the silence changed.

You turned your head slowly, and found him already looking at you.

The air between you felt different now. It was charged in a way that made your skin prickle.

“Are you going to kiss me, old man?” You asked softly, tilting your head. “Or are you going to continue staring at me like that?”

His eyes darkened slightly, and then he simply leaned over.

The kiss was immediate, firm and unapologetically him. His hand came up to your jaw, steadying you as if he needed to make sure you stayed there, that this was real. You melted into it without thinking. Then just as quickly, he pulled back a little, far enough to make you chase the absence of him. His thumb lingered against your cheek before he withdrew completely.

He got out of the car first. You stayed for a second longer, trying to collect yourself, trying to remember how breathing worked normally. He opened your door again without a word.

You walked together to your apartment, the distance between you small enough to feel dangerous, close enough to become aware of your own breath.

“Thank you for dinner.” You said when you reached your door, smiling. “I had a great time.”

“You are welcome.”

The silence was different this time, somewhat heavier. His gaze held yours without wavering. And for a second you saw it, the raw hunger underneath everything. How he did not seem capable of wanting anything halfway. This sent a strange rush through you, excitement and fear.

Because suddenly you could imagine how easy it was to fall in love with him. The thought hit you hard enough to steal your breath and Maekar noticed.

He cupped your cheek with a carefulness that did not match the weight behind his stare. His thumb brushed over it gently, eyes flitting to your mouth and then back up.

Maekar said your name, and it sounded so different in his voice. It made your pulse stutter.

“Yes?”

For a moment you thought he was going to kiss you again. You wanted him to kiss you again. You wanted to feel him again.

“You should go inside.”

Your brows shot up. “What?”

A faint curve touched his mouth.

“You came up with me all the way just to send me to bed? Alone?!” You let out a short, incredulous laugh and pushed at his chest, but he would not move away.

He huffed. “I brought you home.”

“Same thing.” You pouted, before saying quietly. “I was hoping for more than just a kiss…”

“And what were you hoping for?” He asked, voice lower now.

You felt your back hit the wall, your eyes not leaving his. 

“You know what…” You whispered, looking at his mouth. “I want all of you.”

“Greedy girl.” He huffed a laugh. “You had my attention all night, and you still want more.”

“I could never get enough of you.” You admitted. “Is that so strange?”

His grip tightened slightly at your jaw and the way he was looking at you sent a jolt to your core. He did not answer you. Instead, he lunged forward, pressing his lips against yours hard. You gasped into his mouth, a sound that was swallowed instantly as he devoured you. His tongue forced its way past your lips to claim every inch of your mouth. 

You wrapped your arms around his neck, pulling him closer. He pressed you against the wall, leaving no space between you. He kissed you with a starving intensity, his teeth grazing your bottom lip, pulling and nipping at it until you whimpered.

When he finally pulled away, the sudden absence of his heat felt like a physical blow. You were left staring at him, your lips swollen and tingling, completely disoriented. Maekar rested his forehead against yours.

“Do you want to come inside?” You asked breathlessly.

His eyes held yours for a long moment, and something in his expression shifted. 

He did not say yes. He did not say no. He simply pressed his lips against yours, the space between you disappearing again.

Your heartbeat quickened, hard and loud enough that you were certain he could hear it too.

“It’s good you came in,” Robby could sense the hesitation in your voice. The kind of hesitation he hears in most unsure parents' voices when they think a trip to the emergency room is unwarranted or unjustified. “A mother's instinct is usually to be trusted.” He smiled softly as he stepped a little closer to the bedside where your six-year-old lay with teary, tired eyes, a clogged nose and some weird-looking skin irritation. 

Robby does a quick visual examination, noting quickly that your son seems to be having trouble breathing. He could practically hear the pneumonia in his little lungs. 

“What’s your name, mum?” Robby asked as he shone a small but bright white light into your son's eyes. He wasn’t perplexed about this ailment at all; it had to be pneumonia with a touch of contact dermatitis from something he’d come into contact with. A plant from school perhaps? or a cream you’d used. 

“Y/n.” You replied. The name rang through Robby’s ears like a beautiful bell bellowing at midnight. The kind of ring that makes little ideas appear out of thin air. If he were a cartoon character…Robby swore a little lightbulb appeared above his head. 

What are the odds? A beautiful woman with a young son who just so happened to have the very same name that not three nights ago, Robby had practically forced out of Jack Abbot's mouth with the threat of a new night shift resident. 

“You look a little worn out too? After we draw some blood and get this little guy sorted, I think there’s a cup of coffee with your name on it at the nurses' station.” He smiled, pocketing his pen light. 

“Oh,” You sighed out a small chuckle. “These bags are permanent, Dr Robinavitch—“ 

“Please, call me Robby.” He replied quickly as he walked around the examination room looking for all the bits he needed for a blood draw. “It’s my treat, there’s nothing I can do for the permanent lack of sleep, but a little caffeine is good for the body, brain and soul.” 

“That sounds great, thank you, Robby.” You shifted in your chair to move closer to your son's side. His little hand now safely placed in yours. 

“I’ll uh, I’ll be right back,” Robby caught the sight of his senior night shift attending heading out at the end of his shift. The very same night shift attending that Robby knew would want more than anything to be informed about this particular patient. “Excuse me.” He held up one finger and was gone before you could even say okay. 

“Abbot!” Robby bellowed as he did a hop, skip and jump action past the nurses' station, where Dana was getting caught up to speed for her shift. “Hey—Jack!” 

Jack sighed softly to himself before he stopped in his tracks. His old army bag was slung haphazardly over his left shoulder. 

“Brother, I am five feet from freedom here, don’t do this to me.” Jack turned with a growl. He was just trying to get home after a long ass night. “I leave this emergency department in your capable hands.” 

“Not so fast,” Robby cooed as he clamped his hand down on Jack's backpackless shoulder. “I need a consult, sick six-year-old presenting with possible pneumonia—“ 

“Nice one, sounds like you already have a clear diagnosis, what the fuck do you need me for, man, I’m off duty till seven!” Jack whisper-hissed through his teeth. His leg had been killing him since three, and Jack could practically smell the bacon and egg roll from Caramels calling his name. 

“I’m pretty sure it’s your Y/n and her son, Oliver? Yeah—yeah, I think I’ve diagnosed that too,” Robby spoke as he rubbed the back of his head casually, like he was still trying to fake like he didn’t know it was you from the second he heard your name. “But I thought maybe you’d wanna come suss it out for yourself in case I’m delusional and can’t put two and two together.” Robby smiled as he watched Jack's entire demeanour change. It softened at the mere thought of you. 

“You said pneumonia?” Jack followed up as he walked into Robby’s shoulder, making sure to make contact just to get back at the dick-like foolishness he had presented with. “And you're sure it’s Ollie?” 

“Oh, you’re already on a nickname basis with her kid?” Robby’s eyebrows raised as he followed his own emergency contact back to the exam room. “I’ll be damned, do I hear wedding bells?” 

Jack didn’t reply; all he did was make strides to where Robby had come from. Worry had already begun to take its rightful place inside his chest. Sure, Jack Abbot knew how to keep a calm and collected composure…but not when it had anything to do with the family he’d started to feel a part of. 

It was casual. Something new. It wasn’t something that you had considered becoming serious or anything more than just two people spending some casual alone time together. 

Casual. It was supposed to be a no-strings-attached thing. No feelings. No baggage. No attachments. 

That’s how it started anyway…it didn’t stay that way for very long. How could it when Jack was all in from day one. He made that decision on his own terms. All it took was one date with you to know he was in this for the rest of his overextended life. One leg down be damned. 

“Hey,” it was the softest hey Robby had ever heard. “What are you guys doin' here?” Jack asked as he walked in with a proud chest and enough confidence to tell Robby everything he needed to know and more. 

This was Jack Abbot's found family. A second chance at all the things he lost when he lost a physical part of himself. 

“I didn’t want to bother you,” You started in a near panic. “He’s been up all night. I made an appointment with our primary for Wednesday but—“ you didn’t get a chance to speak before Jack was dropping to his knees beside your chair. 

“I’m your damn primary now, alright?” 

You knew well enough that when Jack Abbot said something, he meant it with full conviction. All you could do was hold back a small quicker with pressed together lips as Jack placed a hand to the back of your head and drew your forehand to his lips. 

Robby was rendered speechless. He’d never seen this side of Jack before. 

“Uh, not to interfere, but I should probably continue my work up on Oliver here so we can get some sort of treatment plan in action.” 

“I can do that, you go ahead and annoy some other attending for the rest of your shift, I’ve got this handled now.” Jack didn’t let Robby finish, and Robby knew better than to argue. He threw his hand up in surrender as Jack stood and looked around at where Robby had organised the equipment needed for a blood draw. 

“How long did you say he’s been like this?” Jack asked as he looked down at the little boy, half asleep in the hospital bed that made him look ten times smaller. 

“He was fine yesterday, I thought it was just a cold he’d picked up at school a few days ago, but—“ You paused as panic threatened to burst out into tears; you felt like you’d failed as a mother. “But he just hasn’t been himself since yesterday afternoon; he’s been up all night.” 

“Yeah, he’s gonna be alright, I promise,” Jack cooed as he placed a comforting hand on Oliver’s forehead. “We’ll pump him up with some fluids, antibiotics, and we’ll go from there. Good call bringing him in, I just wish you would have called me.” 

“Jack—“ You sighed, it wasn’t that you didn’t want to…it was more like you were afraid if you did…he wouldn’t answer. 

“Anytime, anything, anywhere.” Is all Jack said as he worked on your son. He was locked in like a madman on a mission. Healing hands that worked miracles on patients all night now worked over your sons like he had something to prove. 

And he did have something to prove…he wanted to prove to you that he was head over fucking heals for you. Making sure Ollie got the best care he could was only the tip of the iceberg. 

“Alright, Bud, I’m gonna need you to make a tight fist for me so I can take some blood,” Jack told your son what he was doing. “But you’re gonna need to look over at mum while I do that, alright?” 

“Isn’t my blood supposed to stay inside me?” Ollie mumbled as he felt the man who’d made him feel safe enough to call family tied off his blood pressure. All Jack could do was laugh as a big grin took over his tired face. 

“Yeah, most of the time, but right now I gotta take some so we can run some tests to see what’s making you feel so miserable, alright?” 

“Will it hurt?” Ollie asked as he looked towards you. 

“A tiny little bee sting, but after that? Nope, plus I can do this with my eyes closed,” Jack looked up at you with a teasing wink of self-reassurance. “But maybe just one eye,” He caught himself flirting as he popped in the butterfly needle. “See? Bet you didn’t even feel that, huh?” 

“Nope.” 

“Good, now I need to talk to your mum outside in the hall for a few minutes, but Princess is gonna come in and get some fluids set up to make you feel better, sound alright with you?” Jack asked your son as if the kid had any say in the matter. 

“Is she a real princess?” Ollie asked as he looked over to where Jack was looking at the small vial of blood. 

“Yeah, Bud, only the real deal for you,” Jack replied as he gestured for you to follow him out. You did just that, but not without saying a loving bye to Oliver. 

It wasn’t long before the two of you felt the weight of the entire emergency department’s eyes on you. Jack's day shift peers, who saw him as something of a traumatised enigma, all looked over like a mythical creature had just appeared. A rarity that was someone on a personal level with Dr. Jack middle name unknown, Abbot. 

“He’s probably going to be admitted for a few days,” Jack started as he eyed down whoever he could lock eyes with. First it was Santos…then Dana. “I can assure you he’ll be fine, but I wanna keep an eye on him for at least twenty-four hours to make sure he’s reactive to treatment. 

“Oh,” Your heart sank into your stomach at the thought of your son needing to stay here in the sterile, fluorescent environment. “Um—am I able to stay with him?” You didn’t know how any of this worked. This was all new territory for you. Up until now, Oliver never needed to be hospitalised. Hell, he’d never broken a bone so much as caught a cold. 

“Absolutely,” Jack turned to you, recognising the guilt that plastered itself across your face. “But hey, on a more important note,” Jack tried to lighten the mood. “Who’s running the café this morning if you’re here?” 

“Adam,” You replied politely as Jack reached for his phone. You caught the background clear as day. You, Jack, and Oliver at the park. “Why? And how is that more important than anything that’s going on right now?” 

“Well, I need to know whose handwork I’m gonna fork out the Uber up charge for.” Jack doesn’t look up from his phone. He’s already got Caramels cafe, the cafe you owned, up on his phone. “Two bacon and egg bagels, an iced coffee and a long black coming right up.” 

“I guess you haven’t eaten, have you?” Neither had you. How could you possibly eat when all you’d been doing was worrying yourself sick over Oliver’s battle with whatever flu or cold or illness this was? 

“Honey, it feels like I haven’t eaten since March,” Jack teased as he walked with you over to the nurses' station. Dana, with all her bright joy and glee, waited patiently for Jack to introduce you. “Dana, this is—“ He paused for a moment, girlfriend never felt right. It felt like a title reserved for high school lovers. “Partner, my partner Y/n, her son is just about to start a round of fluids and antibiotics,” Jack updated the woman whose eyes never left you. “Make it known, VIP treatment for the kid in room three until peds has a bed.” 

“Consider it done,” Dana replied. “I wish I could say I’ve heard all about you,” she continued as she smiled your way. “But Abbot here has an issue with personal and professional.” 

“Yeah, I think we both share that same issue.” You replied as you looked around yourself at everyone staring your way. “Do I have something on my face?” 

“No, darlin',” Dana chuckled. “It’s just not every day this department gets to see into the private life of Private Ryan here.” 

“Oh, eat me,” Jack growled as he motioned the two of you back towards where your son's room was. “C’mon, I don’t want these pariahs giving you the creeps any longer.” 

By the time you got back to your son, Princess had started an IV bag of fluids. He looked so small. So tired. But there was a sense of calm that came over you, knowing Jack was taking care of him. 

“You guys hang tight, I’ll be back with our food in a moment.” The pain in his leg hadn’t gone away, not for a moment. But the pain didn’t come close to the sheer amount of love that was pumping through Jack's veins. 

Adrenaline itself couldn’t compare. 

“Hey, Jack?” You couldn’t let him go without a kiss. You reached for his cheeks and danced the pad of your thumb over his greying scruff. “I love you, thank you for being here.” 

Jack swore his heart had skipped a beat. It didn’t normally do that. But when he felt your lips on his in view of all the emergency department to see, he couldn’t help but blush. 

“I’m never gonna hear the end of this, you know that, right?” He whispered in your ear as he drew you in closer for a hug. One of the hugs he reserved just for you. “And this breaks like three code of conduct rules, fraternising with patients.” 

“I’m not the patient,” You clearly reminded him. “I’m your partner.”

and you stay an extra hour, frustrated but willing to prove you were there to stay. A good nurse who knows how to do her job, man the fucked up ship you all call ‘the pitt.’ Letting your best friend know that she can just come, you’ll handle everything else later.

But it’s in real time that maybe you weren’t fit for this— when you see that small, oh-so familiar body being rushed in a gurney and into Truama two. A bloodied frog dropping to the floor as EMT are calling out orders to the nurses and doctors on stand by. Your body is buzzing, quickly picking up the item that belonged to your toddler, Nadia.

But it’s just coincidence maybe. That little baby, gushing out blood, that couldnt have been your kid, right? Not your one and only. Your precious little girl.

And you can only step back, arm shooting out to make sure the patients in the few chairs who are trying to see this- this spectacle of the aftermath of a car accident, letting the rest of the EMT come through without any issues. But then your bestfriend, Jamie, gets rolled through on a gurney, tears streaming her cheeks holding her bloodied arm, a few scrapes on her face. Her eyes lock onto yours widening when she sees you, crying even harder.

“I’m sorry [+], I’m sorry, it all happened so fast!” She chokes out, and you hand over the clipboard that was in your hand to one of the other nurses, quickly getting by her side as they take her to one of the won’t triage rooms.

“I had Nadia strapped in [+], I swear, but the car came out of no where, I tried to stop it but-“

You shake your head, “It’s okay, alright? You did the best you could, it’s not your fault.” You squeeze her hand hard so she knows, but your face can’t even contort into a fake smile, you can only feel your heart pounding, letting her go as you manage to take your heavy feet to triage 4.

It’s frantic in the room as you look through the glass, Abbot giving out orders to day shift who’s just coming in. Robby coming through the doors and slipping on a sterile gown and gloves. All you can hear is that frantic beeping from the cardiac monitor. Abbot gives you a glance, sucking in a weary breathe, he wouldn’t even know how to properly face you if he tried. Robby speaks, “Is there a reason [+], is watching from outside and not in here?”

Jack opens his mouth to say something but nothing comes out.

Doctor Mohan shrugs her shoulders, eyes flicking to you and back to him, “I’m not sure-“

“Just- we had a talk earlier. Was a too harsh on her.” Jack cuts himself short, giving out a an order to one of the doctors then to Perlah who’s passing by him, “Perlah, if you could tell Nurse [+] she can go home?”

“Sure.”

It should be through after that, but your feet don’t move, they can’t move. A mumble of ‘no’ as you try to get another glimpse of your child, Perlah’s hand is trying to guide you away but something in you snaps, squeeze the frog in your hand, voice booming through the glass enough that they can hear you, “My fucking daughter is in there! I’m not fucking leaving her!”

You can feel it, the wave of eyes glancing to you to your child that’s oh so similar, curls in two braids with red and yellow bows, from the roundness of her cheeks, her lashes, and little doll face that screams, you, you, you. Only prompting everyone in the room to work faster, harder, to save your child’s life.

But who knows if it’ll be enough.

Your ears a shot, you can see them getting the defibrillator ready, Perlah finally getting you to move, letting you sit in one of the waiting rooms. Such stillness, you don’t know how much time has passed till you see multiple people from the PEDS running down the hall to the elevator. You don’t have the will to stand, back pressing to the chair behind you as you feel your shoulders tremble, heart still pounding so hard you can’t feel it in the depths of you.

Hesitant foot steps stop just before you, only closing your eyes.

What’s the point of asking ‘how is she’ when you know the answer.

Robby starts, “So she’s stable, got pierced through the abdomen with not only glass but ruptured by the impact of the car.”

“Everyone is PEDs is taking care of her, “Jack nods, “She’s in good hands, hopefully-“

“—Don’t give me that.” You hiss, bottom lip wobbling. You lick your lips, words coming out as soft as a whisper “It’s either they save or they don’t.”

It’s heavy, almost too heavy. Suffocating. All of it happening too fast. How do you go from singing your daughter to bed last night over the phone in the break room to— this. Contemplating if she’ll be able to survive all this or not. If you’ll be able to see her take breath one more time. You could almost hear her laughter as your thumbs brushed the stomach of the dirtied stuffed frog in your hands, that sweet smile she gave you one too many times you just couldn’t get enough of.

Had you not cared for her enough, prayed to whatever god enough, held her hand a little tighter, hugged her a little longer, put your eyes on her for a little longer instead of glancing away. Let your finger take through her curles as you detangled it for just a second more—

Jack sees you running circles in your mind, ryrs softening, “You have to try ‘nd stay positive-“

Your eyes squint, finally turning your head to look at him, “What for!?” You almost snarl. It’s all exploding inside you, “If- if you-“

And all you can think about is, if Jack Abbot had let you go, take your child at 6:30 from your best friends house like you always do after getting off at 6 o’clock- would your baby be fighting for her life right now?

It all hits you at once, a rush of your love for your daughter running through you that consumes every fiber inside you, a fear of that love having no place to go if your daughter, a fear of blaming Jack, of all people. The one you so deeply cared for and wanted to make proud despite what happened at work— the only things keeping you in tact- and if that were to- if Nadia were to—

Harsh sobs escaping your throat as you clutch your own scrubs for dear life. Shaking your head as your feet hit the tile floor running as far away from the situation as you can, tears dampening your face.

Your daughter’s froggy left slouched in the chair.

He’d taken you against the window the first time.

“You afraid of heights?” he’d asked, and the question moved through you like warm liquid rather than reached you. You’d shaken your head, or tried to. “No,” he’d murmured, your jaw in his hands. “Didn’t think so.” 

He’d taken his prosthetic off after, wryly claiming that the position felt good but the leg disagreed. That had somehow lead to another round, slower the second time with him on his back and you set over him.

A part of you wondered often the sort of impression you’d given Jack, what he’d seen, exactly, that made him sure he could have you like this and keep it weightless. Whatever it was, it had to have been right to some degree because you’d spent more nights in his penthouse than your own apartment for the past six months without ever calling it anymore than what it was. 

He was a better lay than you’d ever had. He was probably the best option around to get steam off while you worked your way through residency. It helped that he was your attending and you shared the same strange hours. 

You kept the books carefully and columns balanced. Sex, sleep, the occasional terrible four a.m. meal that didn’t count because eating was maintenance, not intimacy. You never stayed for coffee — you took it to go — and you didn’t learn his middle name on purpose. You’d never seen the inside of his closet. You left before you could risk having to go to work together. A woman in trouble would linger, and you did not linger. Therefore.

But the stupid books had started running a quiet deficit you hadn’t accounted for. You knew exactly how he took his coffee. The toothbrush in the second drawer that you reached for now without looking, muscle memory in a place you’d sworn was temporary. 

And even though you could admit that Jack knew his way around you and never made you ask twice for anything in that bed, that wasn’t the line item that worried you. Bodies learned bodies. It was that you’d stopped taking your coffee to go some mornings without ever noticing the change; you’d sit at his counter with a mug that was somehow yours now, and drank it there while he read something on his phone and never told you to leave. You’d started to become a woman that lingered, and even worse, one who liked to do so.

And that had to stop, because Jack had told you point-blank what this was on the first night while you were still putting on your shirt with his mouth print blooming under the fabric.

This doesn’t have to be a thing. I’m not looking to make it one. Is that alright?

He’d said the words while putting on his briefs, and you’d agreed too fast, because at that time, it had cost you nothing. You’d wanted a body and a break, and he was offering both. He’d been more honest than any man you’d let touch you. He’d told you the terms up front and never moved them.

So, you simply had to put yourself out of the arrangement.

Jack found you by your car in the parking garage. He’d put on his coat a heavy thing that should’ve swallowed him but instead he was able to fill out almost perfectly.

“Jack,” you said, trying to find an even voice as he closed the distance between you. Before he could even ask, you forced out, “I’m not going home with you.”

His brows furrowed and he looked confused. For good reason, you supposed. Friday mornings had become sort of a usual for you, the easiest compensation in your life for missing Friday nights. 

“You good?” He stepped close and tipped his head, and you watched him give you a complete once-over, eyes dropping to your hands and the set of your shoulders like you were a patient. “You looked a little out of it today. Come — I’ll make you soup.” 

You pinched your eyes shut at his words. “What’s that even supposed to mean — I was fine.” 

“Don’t take it personal,” he said. “Come on, soup.”

“Seriously, I was fine.” You were almost offended now, which was clearly his intent, the bastard. “I’ve been awake for nineteen hours, I’m not sick —” You caught yourself getting pulled into it, defending your honor, exactly the kind of dumb circular thing you’d let him rope you into a hundred times because arguing with Jack was sometimes fun. You shut it down. “I’m not going home with you,” you said again, this time with a sharper edge. 

He pursed his lips and crossed his arms over his chest, giving you another once-over as he recaliberated the situation in real time. “Did I upset you?” 

“No, it’s not a fight,” you said fast. You dragged a hand down your face. “I’m not mad at you, Jack. I’m done with this. The whole — all of it.”

He tipped his chin down when you gestured vaguely with your finger between the two of you, at the whole abstract nature of you. Then, he said, “You’re calling it?”

“Yeah, very much,” you said, voice dropping a register as you leaned against the driver’s side door of your car. Then, when you saw how his brows furrowed and how he looked just slightly caught off-guard, you added, dumbly, “Sorry. I guess.” 

He held your eyes a long beat, something working in his mouth, and then closed the last of the distance between you. His hand came up to your jaw, and you felt your face turn to liquid as you involuntarily leaned into it; his thumb dragged slow along your cheekbone and his gaze followed it, and you stood pinned to your own cold car door and let him, because telling him to stop would mean pretending you didn’t want it, and you’d never once been able to sell that lie for either of you. 

“You mean it?” he asked, voice rough, and his forehead dropped to yours. When you nodded, he mimicked your movement. “Alright. Then let’s at least end it properly.” 

When you showed no urgency to decline, his mouth found yours before you could decide whether you trusted yourself enough to end it properly. One of his hands stayed at your jaw while the other one fitted you back against the cold of the car. He smiled against your mouth, and you used your palm to push him by the chest.

He went back, just slightly, dropping his head to your forehead again. “I’m guessing that’s a yes?”

“One time,” you said quietly, almost in a whisper. “And then I mean it. It won’t change anything.”

“I believe you,” he said. “Last time, then. Make it count.”

Jack was making it obscenely difficult for you to make it count. The rhythm you’d settled into with him at around month two — the one where the two of you skipped the drink and went straight into his bed — had disappeared tonight. He just really needed a drink tonight, and then another, and then he really didn’t want to shut his mouth. 

He poured the second one without offering you a top-up and stood at the window instead of coming to you, two fingers of amber catching the lamplight. You watched him and watched him, answering his questions until the two of you finally ended up in the bedroom. 

He’d opened his mouth to argue something and you got his belt open instead slowly, and whatever he’d been about to say faded elsewhere. The city sat out past the glass, unblinking, that audience he never drew the blinds against. His hand found your hair, resting with his thumb at your ear, almost gentle and completely fucking distracting. 

“Slow,” he murmured when you took him into your mouth, and the word came out scraped down to nothing. His head went back against the headboard. “Fuck.”

You went the opposite of slow; you knew that taking your time with it, acknowledging the last time of it all, would crack something open in your chest you couldn’t afford to have open. You did everything you knew undid him — six months of evidence, a body of proof — fast and certain, and the breath punched out of him and his fingers curled into your hair and the smug, talkative version of him went quiet for about four seconds. 

“You — huh — last time. Really?” he managed to say, fingers tightening against your scalp, the blunt fingernails scraping against the skin. You slid your tongue down his length, and he let out a short groan, letting out a wrecked, “Good girl.” His hips lifted a fraction before he caught them, forcing himself still under your hands. “Good — yeah.” 

You’d have smiled if your mouth wasn’t otherwise occupied, so you settled on humming around him. You let yourself think you’d won the quiet, and then his thumb moved against your temple slowly, and he ruined it.

“You really mean it?” he asked quietly, words aimed somewhere at the ceiling. “You’re done?”

You ignored him and kept your rhythm. It wasn’t a question you were going to dignify with him in your mouth and your resolve already pooled somewhere on his bedroom floor. 

His hands flexed in your hair at the silence, then tugged, a frustrated little pull that went straight down your spine and that he absolutely felt you react to, because his thumb pressed flat behind your ear like he was talking to your pulse there.

“Don’t go quiet on me,” he said, rasp going uneven, breath catching somewhere between the words, his whole stomach drawn tight. You watched the muscle there jump when you took him deeper as his jaw worked. “You hear me. I know you — shit.”

You’d found the underside with the flat of your tongue you slowly dragged, and the sentence collapsed. His head dropped back and your eyes caught the tendon at his throat standing out. One of his heels dug into the mattress and you felt the tremor run up his thigh under your palm. 

You’d have been lying if you said this wouldn’t be missed. Not the talking, but this, the privilege of watching Jack Abbot lose a fight with his own body, a man who controlled every room he stood in coming apart by degrees because of what you were doing. You pressed your thumb into the crease of his hip and felt him shudder. You took him to the back of your throat and swallowed and he said your name that came out of his mouth breaking. 

“You’re really gonna — ” He inhaled sharply, hand fisting tighter on your head. “ — gonna do this and walk, you’re — ”

You pulled off of him with a slow, wet, and deeply unflattering sound and sat back on your heels and looked up at him, lips swollen, thoroughly out of patience, your hand still working him just enough that his hips chased it. His eyes were closed, and he let out a large exhale.

“Are you kidding me?” 

He cracked an eye open, then shifted his head to the side against the pillow. “What?” he muttered.

“Why won’t you shut up?” You squeezed deliberately and his jaw clenched against the noise that almost got out of him. “You’re acting like a child.” 

“Acting like a child,” he huffed, head tipping back. “I’m pretty aged out of the tantrum bracket.”

“Could’ve fooled me.” You dragged your thumb up the length of him slowly. “You’ve been throwing one since we got off.”

His hand left your hair and closed around your wrist instead — the one still working him — stilling it, and then he was pulling with his unarguable strength, drawing you up over him until you had to crawl up his body or be dragged. 

You ended up straddling his waist. He stayed flat on his back beneath you, one arm folding behind his head while the other spread warm and heavy over your thigh, and he looked up at you with his chest still heaving and the gray stark at his temples. 

“Better,” he muttered. “Neck was startin’ to go, watching you be stubborn down there.” The hand on your thigh slid up slowly, settling at your hip, thumb working a lazy circle into the bone. He tilted his chin up slightly. “What’s this really about?”

You went still because you had too much of an answer, and it was the sort of one that you didn’t believe could survive being said out loud over a man who’d made it clear exactly what this was on day one. 

“You know,” you said.

“Maybe. But humor me.” His eyes stayed on your face, looking patient as ever, as the circle of his thumb continued moving. “Thought we had something nice going and now — ” He tilted his head slightly against the pillow. “So, what’s going on up in that pretty little head of yours?”

“I want more than this,” you said plainly. “That’s what’s in my head. I want the whole thing — the relationship and dates and stuff. I think I’ve got enough time to — get into that.”

“Yeah?” he said, voice coming out in a breath His thumb stilled on your hip. He looked up at you and his other hand came up and pushed a piece of your hair back off your cheek. 

You had to press your lips together, because you obviously weren’t expecting him to offer, and yet you’d been holding your breath anyway. 

“Yeah,” you said. “I do.”

His hand stayed on your cheek a moment longer, the pad of his thumb resting just under your eye. Then his hand dropped back to your hip where it was safe.

“You should,” he said after a moment, swallowing. “Get into that. You’ve got the time.”

“That’s it?”

“What do you want me to say?” His hands flexed at your hip, his hips still beneath yours and the want still humming under all of it. “Not gonna talk you out of one thing you actually deserve. Even I’m not that selfish.” His brows furrowed, like he’d just processed his own words. “Most days.”

His hand left your hip and found your waist, and then he was turning you, guiding you off of him onto the side on the mattress beside him, leaving the two of you laying facing each other in the gold dark. His thigh slid between yours. 

This close, you could see everything you usually didn't get to study: the silver threaded through the stubble at his jaw, the small white seam of an old scar through one eyebrow, the way the lines around his eyes weren't from laughing. He had one arm folded under his head and the other draped heavy over your hip, fingers spread at the small of your back, and he just looked at you, the want and the conversation both still hanging in the air between you, neither resolved.

“S’it somebody at work?” he asked. “Has to be. You don’t have time yet to meet anyone who isn’t.” 

You shook your head slightly against the pillow, and your brows furrowed together at the idea. “No — no one. I haven’t met anyone yet.” 

He huffed. His eyes dropped from yours to somewhere near your collarbone, then came back up. 

He turned his face toward the pillow for a second, as if to hide his face from you, then met your eyes again. “You’d rather have no one than me, huh?” 

“Wow,” you breathed out in almost a gasp. You pulled back an inch against the pillow to look at him properly. “Now that’s mean, Jack. I can find someone, you know.” 

“Yeah?” His brow lifted, scar catching the light. “Course you can.” His hand slid off your hip and down, palming the back of your thigh, drawing your knee up over his. “Always hear someone in the hospital talking about you.”

“Don’t patronize me.”

“M’not.” He hitched your leg higher, fitting himself into the space it opened, and you felt the blunt heat of him press where you were already aching for it, rubbing slowly against your folds. “I mean it. It’s about time you got out from this old man.” 

“Don’t call yourself that.”

He dragged the length of him through you again, catching you over and over where you wanted him and not giving it. “It’s what I am. Fifty, boring life, no good to you past this.” His mouth ghosted the corner of yours, breath warm and uneven. “You should be out with someone who can give you the whole thing. I’ve already done my time.”

You could do it again, you wanted to say. You could be the whole thing. But the words sat behind your teeth, because you already knew what he’d say and do if you’d said them, and you couldn’t take hearing it kindly. Especially not with him notched against you like this when it was supposed to be the last time.

You let your hand find his jaw instead, the rough of the stubble, the silver, and you watched his eyes flicker at the touch, at how your lips moved from one side to the other as you tried to keep the words down. It seemed like he’d understood whatever you didn’t say.

“Yeah, baby,” he muttered and pressed his thumb to the back of your thigh, eyes fluttering shut at the touch of you. “I know.” 

He pushed in then, slow, all the way, mid-breath like it was just the next thing between you. The shudder rolled clean through him as he sank into you, his exhale breaking ragged against your mouth. Your spine arched off the mattress. His arm hooked under the small of your back and dragged you flush, no space left, no air, the two of you pressed chest to chest in the gold hush.

“Fuck,” he breathed against your mouth, holding there, buried to the hilt and not moving as he felt you clench around him. “Spoiling me rotten and then telling me you’re leaving.”

“Shut up now — ”

He drew back slow and sank back in deep, and the sound you made came out somewhere against his shoulder. Each roll of his hips pressed you up the sheets. “Get me used to this and then — what? Go hand it to someone who hasn’t earned it.” He laughed brokenly against your throat. “Selfish girl.” 

You got a fistful of his hair and pulled, hard enough that his breath stuttered. “Go find — someone else yourself,” you said through your teeth, because opening your mouth seemed like something embarrassing would follow. “You’re not lacking options — ”

“But I like having my cake,” he breathed, and there was almost a laugh under it. “Eating it, too.”

“Gross,” you mumbled against him.

One month was meant to be enough time. Lying awake the first week, you’d assumed it’d take thirty days to unlearn a person. It had worked on the obvious things. You’d stopped reaching for your phone at the end-of-shift and stopped seeking him out by the lockers. You’d slept in your own bed and not found it lacking, mostly. But nobody warned you that being in a car for four hours would call it all into question. 

One month of calling him Dr. Abbot across the bay, crisp and so weightless, handing him a chart without your fingers brushing his. You’d gotten good at it. Then Robby floated the conference. Some emergency medicine thing four hours upstate;  a block of credits, a hotel with a conference rate, a chance to put PowerPoint slides between yourself and the actual work for two days. Dana volunteered the department van before anyone could think of a reason not to, already half out of her scrubs spiritually, determined to get a few days of being a person instead of a charge nurse.

Like these things usually did, the seating assembled itself, which was to say it was assembled badly. Robby drove while Dana drove shotgun. Trinity somehow won the entire back row. And the middle row was you, Dennis, and Jack. 

You in the middle, because the universe worked in fucked-up ways. In this case, the universe was named Dana.

“You’ll fit,” Dana had said, and pressed a duffel of granola bars into your arms like a consolation prize, steering you into the gap between the two men before you could mount a defense. 

You fit pressed thigh-to-thigh with Jack Abbot for four hours up interstate, his arm slung along the seatback behind you because there was genuinely nowhere else for a man his size’s arms to put it, the heat of him bleeding through your sleeve like a low fever. You knew that arm. You knew the weight of it, the places where his hand fell when it wasn’t thinking about where it fell. It was a quarter-inch from touching you, which was worse than actually touching you, and you suspected he knew that, too. 

The van pulled out of the lot at five in the morning. Dennis had his headphones in before the drive even started. Up front, Dana was already arguing with Robby about the music. Trinity was sprawled in the whole back row to herself, scrolling on her phone. 

Thirty minutes into the drive, Jack broke the seal. 

“Excited?” he asked, eyes still out the window, profile flat and bored as anything. His voice was pitched low enough that it lived in the space between his mouth and your ear and nowhere else. 

You kept your head tipped back against the seat. “More excited about sleeping in a comfortable bed than the conference.”

His brows narrowed as he turned to look at you. “Some Marriot-adjacent mattress? You’re aiming low.”

“It’s horizontal and not on-call. I’m easy to please.”

“Since when?” he drawled, bone-dry, eyes going back to the window. But his thigh had pressed a degree closer against yours, a shift you couldn’t call a thing without admitting you were keeping track. Up-front, Dana won whatever argument she’d been having and something with a heavy bassline filled the van. Jack let the noise ring and leaned half-an-inch closer that nobody would ever catch. “You used to say my sheets were scratchy.”

“For a man with that penthouse, they were scratchy — ”

“Finally,” he breathed out, satisfied, like he’d been fishing for exactly that and reeled it in. Something in his face eased and you hated, a little, how much you wanted to have done that. “I almost forgot you’d been in it.” 

God. You hadn’t forgotten anything. That was the whole problem. You knew the place, the cold floor on the way to the bathroom, the exact freckles on his chest up close. You knew he wore a ring you had never once asked about and he’d never once explained, and that you’d both kept your eyes politely off the subject the way you keep your eyes off a wound that wasn’t yours to dress. You knew all of it, and all you could do was keep promising yourself it didn’t count anymore. 

“Can we stop at the next exit?” Trinity said from the back. “I need coffee and the bathroom. In that order.”

Dana hummed. “There’s a Sheetz coming up in ten. That good?” She looked through the map on her phone. “Everybody go when we stop. We’re not pulling off twice.”

“Works for me,” Robby said. 

Dennis plugged out one of his earphones and glanced over everyone in the car. “We’re stopping?” 

“Yup,” Dana confirmed. “Bathroom, snacks, ten minutes, back in the van. Whitaker, you want anything, you decide now.” 

Dennis considered, then put his earphone back on, apparently deciding the whole thing was beneath the commitment. 

Jack leaned in from beside you, barely. “Single stall in the back of those places, you know?” he said, voice low, barely audible over the music. “There’s a lock on the door and everything.” 

You kept your eyes on the windshield in front of you. “Weird thing to know off the top of your head.”

His thigh pressed warm against yours through the curve of an off-ramp that didn’t strictly require it. “How much would it take?” His eyes flickered back out to the window, even as his shoulder now pressed up against yours. “You and me in there. Ten minutes. Name a number.”

“Can’t be bought.” You forced your eyes to the windshield. “Sorry. Not for sale.”

“No?” His voice dipped, amused. “Everybody’s got a price.”

“Not me.” You turned your head and found him already closer than he’d been a second ago. “You really think you could afford me?”

“Could take a run at it.”

“Wouldn’t get far.”

“Fifty,” he said, and you could see the slight grin crawling onto his lips. 

You let out a short laugh, then immediately pressed your mouth over your lips before it became any louder. “I don’t get out of bed for fifty dollars, Abbot, let alone on my knees.”

“Oof.” He winced, mock-wounded, dragging a hand over his chest. “Expensive date.” 

“It’s never a date with you.”

He bit his lip at that, eyes raking over you, the grin caught behind his teeth. “Right. Hundred, then.” 

“I’m gonna report you to HR. You’re my attending.” 

“Good luck with filling out the history we have for that.”

You turned to look at him, and let your mouth curl. “You really think I’m the sort of girl to do it in a gas station bathroom?”

You watched the grin go still on his face, watched his eyes drop to your mouth and drag back up, the warmth in them tipping into something darker. “Would you?” 

You scoffed, shaking your head. “In your dreams, Jack.”

“Frequently,” he said, not missing a second. “Vividly, too.” 

You leaned in enough to feel his breath catch. “Keep dreaming, then. It’s all you’re getting.” 

You sat back before he could answer, fingers playing with the seatbelt, sweet as anything.

“Christ.” He dragged a hand down over his jaw, his head tipping back against the seat and looked at you sideways through the gray morning light, and the bit fell off his face. “Missed you.”

Before you could even process the words with his attention on you, because he was who he was, his jaw worked once and looked back out the window, ending it himself before you could, handing the silence back to you to do with it what you pleased. 

Your chest squeezed just slightly at that, and you had to be the one to force yourself to look away, catching sight of Dennis’s head bumping against the window as he soundly slept, oblivious, lucky. 

At some point past the gas station you lost the fight with your own exhaustion. Nineteen hours of being awake before the drive, and the van was warm, and the bassline had mellowed into something Dana hummed underneath her breath, and the road had gone smooth — almost hypnotic — interstates often did when they’d gone out of the clutches of the city. You’d meant to stay awake. You’d made the small private rule about it, too; you went under anyway, somewhere between a stretch of dead farmland and the next, your head listing by degrees toward the warm solid thing on your left because your body, again, moving without giving a single shit about how you felt. 

When you surfaced, it happened slowly. The light had changed; it was full morning now, white and flat through the windshield. Your cheek was pressed against something that rose and fell in a long, even rhythm, and your brain took its time arriving to the fact of it. You’d fallen asleep on Jack's chest. One month clean and your face was tucked into the seam of his jacket like it had never stopped being there. 

You weren’t proud of how you didn’t want to move just yet, so you didn’t move. 

You could feel his breathing under your cheek, slow enough that he might have been asleep, too. There was a smell to him you’d made yourself forget and were now remembering, completely against your will. It was nothing fancy, just clean cotton and something warm. The Gatorade bottle you’d been clutching was in the cupholder against your knee now, and you had no memory putting it there. Which meant there was a slight chance Jack had worked it out of your sleeping hand at some point so it wouldn’t tip into your lap, and set it down. 

You cracked one eye to assess the damage to your dignity. Dennis had leaned in the same stretch of road, toward you, hood up and mouth open, gone to the world. And somewhere in all that, Jack’s arm, the long span of it along the seatback, had come down around you with his hand had ended up resting flat on the top of Dennis’s skull, holding it off your shoulder, fingers spread over the kid’s hair like a melon he was deciding whether to buy. 

You’d furrowed your brows at the arrangement, reeling, when the camera shutter went off. 

Jack came awake all at once. He always did; he was never groggy, never had a transition. It was like there was an off and on button to him, as though his nervous system had been trained somewhere that didn’t allow the luxury of waking up slowly. He clocked it in a half second: the phone, you against his chest, the unexplained weight under his own palm. He followed his arm down to where his hand was cradling a sleeping resident’s head and his face crumpled slightly. 

He smacked it off, open-palmed, off the top of Dennis’s skull. 

“Ow.” Dennis jolted awake, flailing upright, a crease pressed into his cheek from your sleeve. “What — Dr. Abbot — what —”

“Wrong shoulder, kid,” Jack said.

“I wasn’t —” Dennis took in the angle for himself and recoiled. “Sorry. God. Sorry.” 

You’d started to sit up to peel yourself off Jack’s chest and salvage some dignity to sit back into the cold neutral air of your own seat where you belonged. His palm came up to your forehead and pushed you back down against him.

“Not you,” he said. His hand stayed flat on your forehead. “You’re fine where you are.” 

You reached up and pulled his hand off your forehead, sitting up out of the warmth of him. 

“C’mon,” he said quietly, under the music, softer than a command.

You paused with your hand still around his wrist and turned to look at him full-on. He was already looking at you, none of the previous needling present in his face.

You shook your head once, a small gesture. You didn’t trust the words to come out the way they needed to, so you let your face carry it instead.

He held your eyes a second, then his jaw shifted slightly and the corner of his mouth went to a worn-down half of a smile. He gave you the smallest nod. His eyes fell shut and he tipped his head back with a small shake of his head as he eased his wrist out of your hand. 

You put your hands in your lap where they couldn’t get you in trouble, and stared out at the flat white morning coming up over the interstate, and made sure to not look at him again.

The conference threw a networking event the first evening, which meant a low-lit ball room, a cash bar charging eleven dollars for wine that came from a box, and a couple hundred physicians standing around in lanyards pretending they’d be here without the boxed wine. 

You’d lost the group almost immediately. Dana was drawn to a cluster of people she knew in a previous life; Robby to someone he’d done a residency with; Dennis to the food; Trinity to one of her college buddies. It left you working the edge of the room with a plastic cup of wine, doing a slow orbit as you read badges, when a man peeled off a nearby conversation and aimed at you.

He was older. Closer to Jack’s range, give or take. He had silver coming in at the temples and an unbothered ease that made you wonder if he’d ever had it hard. His badge put him outside Columbus. He had a good face and seemed aware of it without leaning on it, and no wear that graced his features; a man who slept fine, you assumed, and didn’t own a single thing he refused to speak about. 

“Pace yourself with that,” he said, tipping his own glass in the direction of yours. “It comes up to you pretty quickly.” 

“Bit late for that,” you said, lifting the cup up an inch. “This is already number three.”

“Then I’m too late to save you and might as well make it worse,” he said, offering a hand. “Mark. Philly. I run the shop out there.” 

You introduced yourself. He had a good handshake, dry and brief, none of the holding-on the men sometimes did at these things. 

He tipped his head to look at your badge. “Pittsburgh Trauma. You like it?”

“Most days.”

He shrugged. “Anybody who says every day is lying or hasn’t been doing it long enough.” He took a sip and let his eyes come back to your face. “Let me guess. Senior resident. Somebody made you come.” 

You were going to say something back—you had something, you’d half-built it—and then there was a hand at the small of your back. You knew the weight of it, the breadth, where the fingers fell. It settled low against your spine and stayed, warm through the dress. 

“Mark,” Jack said from beside you. He had a club soda in his free hand and an easy nothing on his face. “Jack Abbot. Pittsburgh.” 

“Jack.” Mark did a quick thing, the hand, the half-step Jack had folded into the space between you without seeming to take it, the way you hadn't stepped out from under his palm. Something recalibrated behind his face, pleasant and unhurried. He stuck the hand out anyway. “I think I’ve read you —” He referenced one of Jack’s studies you knew all too well, something he’d handed over to you once in his bed like it was a bedtime story.

“That’s me.” Jack took the handshake. His thumb moved once at your spine, where the angle hid it from the third person entirely. “Philly? You inherit the department or build it?”

“Little bit of both. Mostly inherited the problems,” he said lightly. “You enjoying the conference?” 

“It’s a conference,” Jack said, lifting his glass half-an-inch. Then, his head tilted in your direction. “You know this one’s my best trauma resident? I’d put her on anything. Watched her run a procedure last month half the seniors I came up with couldn’t have called that fast.” 

“That so?” Mark looked at you again, interest sharpened. “He doesn’t seem the type to hand those out.”

“He’s nice to everyone.” 

“She’s underselling it.” Jack’s hand spread a degree wider at your back, the heel of his palm settling into the dip of your spine, fingers easy along your hip. “You’ll be reading her name in a couple years and remembering you met her here, of all places.”

It got the laugh Jack wanted it to. Mark took a sip, easy, regrouping, and you watched him do the math the way smooth men do—fast, behind a pleasant face—and land on a play.

“Well.” He tilted the glass toward Jack. “I won’t monopolize you. I’m sure you’ve got the room to work — everybody wants a minute at these things.”

The thumb that had been moving at your back stilled, and Jack’s features crossed into something amused as he narrowed his brows at the man. 

“S’alright,” he said pleasantly. “Got everyone I need right here.” 

Mark recaliberated again, watching him take Jack’s measure one more time; the hand, the half-inch of space that hardly qualified as space. You watched him arrive to the easy conclusion that whatever was happening here had been decided before he ever walked over.

“Fair enough,” he said, setting his empty cup down at the nearest high-top. “Pleasure. Good luck with the residency.” He nodded at you, then to Jack. “Abbot.” And then he was gone, folding back into the room, off to find the next conversation that wasn’t already spoken for.

Jack’s hand was still on your back, and you stepped out from under it. You turned to face him, and felt the thing that had been climbing in you all night finally find a target.

“Why would you do that?” you asked, shaking your head and pressing your lips shut to keep yourself from saying anything more. 

“Do what?” he said mildly, the glass loose in his hand. 

“Don’t.” You kept your face arranged for the room, tamping down your voice so it wouldn’t carry over to strangers. “You know what you did. You’re not stupid.”

“I said you were good at your job.” He had the gall to look reasonable. “Becuase you are.”

“That’s not what it was and you know it — thank you.” Your jaw tightened. “You don’t get to walk over and put your hand on me when I’m talking to another man and act like — ” Your fingers moved between the two of you, a small and sharp movement. “ — like you’ve got any claim. We agreed to this a month ago.”

Jack’s lips pressed in a thin line at the words, and his eyes raked over your face. “He’d have you in his bed by ten,” he said, calmer now. “Guys like that — it’s their whole game at places like this. One night, gone by checkout. You didn’t lose anything worth keeping.” 

Your brows furrowed at that, and you felt something go hot in your neck. “Yeah?” you asked, voice going quieter. “Isn’t that what you were?” 

He looked away for a second, one hand coming up to rub over the bottom half of his face. “If you can’t tell the difference between me and a guy like that,” he said evenly, and there was something genuinely stung underneath as his eyes met yours, “then I really don’t know what to tell you.” 

“Maybe there isn’t one.”

His face twisted at that, and he let out a disbelieved laugh. “That’s how you think of me?”

“That’s not — ” You stopped, because his face had knocked something loose in you and you had no idea what you thought anymore. “That’s not what I said.” 

“It sounded a hell of a lot like it.” He shook his head. “Six months and you’re putting me next to a guy you met ten minutes ago. Alright.” 

“Jack — ”

“You wanted it, too. Okay?” When you let out a small ‘what?’ he continued, “You heard me. You’re acting like you just went along with it, and you never once asked for more either.” His voice had dropped low, and he’d walked closer to you before you even realized. “You never once asked for more until the night you walked. So don’t put it all on me.” 

“I asked,” you said, voice cracking just slightly, and you looked around the room to see if anyone was close to you. “You were the one who told me to go find someone else. You said you’re no good past what we were doing.” 

“I said it because it’s true,” he said quickly, dragging a hand down his face. “I’m not the guy you build the rest of your life around. I tried to do the decent thing.”

“Then stand on that,” you said. “You don’t get to tell me to find someone and stop it the second anyone shows up. Pick one. You don’t get to keep me in your life like this forever because you can’t stand to either let me in or go.” 

“I’m trying to do right by you,” he said roughly.

You pressed two fingers above your eyelid, shaking your head. “Why are you doing this?” You shoulders came up to your ears. “I don’t — it was never going to be us, Jack. You said so yourself. I don’t get why — I need to move on.” 

He closed his eyes at that for a moment. “I know you do,” he said quietly, the fight gone all out of him. His eyes flickered down to his hand for a second, then made a loose fist out of them. “I — can we go somewhere else?” He leaned in slightly, body stiffening up. Reading the hesitation on your face, he said, “Please.” 

You’d watched him avoid the word in a dozen rooms, so you nodded slowly and forced yourself to not look too hard at why. You couldn’t, because if you stopped to let yourself consider it, it’d make your body hurt even more, and you’d still do it. 

The stairwell was the only door on the floor that wasn’t a room or a lobby. It was fire-exit cold, raw concrete, a fluorescent light overhead. The reception came up through the floor as bass and nothing else, the words gone out of it. The door sucked shut behind you both and took the noise with it. You both walked four floors up, apparently neither of you being ready to do anything about it. And then there was simply the buzz of the bad light and Jack, six months and one month and four floors and a whole conference away from you, standing with his back to the cinderblock and his hands jammed in his pockets.

You crossed your arms and your eyes involuntarily flickered up to the ceiling because you weren’t sure you could talk. But when he let the silence drag on, too, you said, “Jack — ”

“Did you want it to be me?” he said immediately, like your voice had spurred him into action. 

“What?”

“The whole thing you said you want. Dates, the rest of it.” His body was stiff against the wall. “Was that — did you ever imagine me, or just, someone else. Someone who would.” 

You took in a shaky breath. “You.” It came out more plainly than you’d expected, like your body had been ready to be rid of it, to place it somewhere in the open. “I left because I wanted more — with you, and you made it pretty clear I could never have that.”

His hands jammed in his pockets. The light buzzed overhead, that sick fluorescent flutter, and somewhere four floors down the reception kept going, two hundred people who'd never know this was happening over their heads.

“I don’t think I can give you that,” he said.

“Okay.” You forced yourself to nod, and your eyes went hot. “Thanks for telling me that, then.”

He raised a palm just enough that it caught in your eyesight. “I didn’t — didn’t say I never wanted to. Don’t think that.” He tilted his neck up to meet your eyes properly. “Wanting you that way wasn’t hard. I’ve been doing that against my own advice the entire time.”

He'd come off the wall a step without seeming to know he'd done it, and his face had lost the arrangement it usually wore, the bored set of it, and underneath was something you'd caught glimpses of and never the whole of. His eyes shifted to the wall, the stenciled number, anywhere but you.

“I did years of this already. And it ended about as badly as it could end.” He laughed wryly, no humor in it. “I stopped letting myself want things — I thought it’s a lot easier to get through a night if there’s nothing you’d be hurt to lose.” His muscles tensed on his face, the lines deepening as he pinched his eyes shut and shook his head. “Feels like I’m losing you, and it hurts like hell.” He looked up at the ceiling. “I don’t know when it happened. It wasn’t meant to.”

You pressed a finger against the underside of your eye then, determined to catch anything that could possibly leak out. 

“But you don’t know if you can do it,” you said, words coming out shakily. 

He tugged his bottom lip between his teeth and shook his head slowly. “No,” he said honestly, and it was worse than any lie he could’ve told. “I don’t know.”

You nodded again, because there was nothing else for you to do. 

“But — but, I don’t wanna lose what I’ve got with you,” he admitted, voice dropping into something shameful. “I know that the nights you’re not on are longer. And if I can’t have you, I want you to know you do that for me. It started being pretty serious a long time ago — for me, too.” 

The light fluttered overhead and you let the finger drop from under your eye, gave up on holding it, let whatever wanted to come just come. Somehow, they were words you’d always wanted to hear and yet they arrived wrong, off-rhythm. You’d kept careful track of everything he wouldn’t give you, a whole running tally of it, and he'd just gone and paid the entire balance in one breath in the worst-lit room, and the awful part — the part that made your blood run even hotter — was that it counted. It counted, anyway. 

“So what do we do with that?” you said. “I don’t — I don’t know where that leaves us.”

He was quiet for a moment. You watched him sit in the question instead of dodging it, which was new, which was maybe the most he’d ever given you in one night.

“I’d want to try,” he said finally, words careful, like he was setting something down that might break. “Not the old way. I mean the other thing. What you wanted.” He let out a breath. “If you still want it. I wasn’t very great the first time, and I’m out of practice, too.” 

You wiped your cheek, and winced as you felt your hand scrub at your skin a little too roughly. “You were okay with it a month ago — ”

“It hurt,” he said immediately. “It hurt, you walking out. I didn’t have anything better than to let you, but don’t — don’t think it didn’t.” 

He moved when you didn’t respond, stepping closer than the conversation needed. His hands came up and settled at your arms, just below the shoulders, loose, holding you in place or holding himself there, you couldn't tell which, maybe both.

“Let me try,” he said roughly. His thumbs moved once against your arms. “I want to learn this with you.”

You looked up at him. He held it — your eyes, the closeness, all of it — instead of glancing off the way he had all night. You realized distantly that this was a sort of contract you’d be signing, and he was laying out the option for you to not do so. 

“You can’t disappear on me,” you said instead of considering the second option, “when it gets hard. I don’t ever want to feel like I made up something I didn’t.”

He nodded stiffly. “If I do, you can drag me back out.”

His forehead came down, to the top of your head, his chin resting in your hair, his arms folding the rest of the way around you like he'd finally run out of reasons not to. You felt him breathe out, the whole tense length of him going down an inch against you.

“Just let me try,” he said again, into your hair, voice a whisper. “Please. I’m asking. I don’t do that a lot.”

tags — @emmdreams @shoulderpress

a persistent wave of anxiety had trailed you all morning, starting the moment you woke up to an empty mattress, and you had finally hit a wall.

your yellow school tote bag sat heavy in the passenger seat, stuffed to the brim with flashcards, your green lanyard, plastic math cubes, and a half-finished fiction manuscript you hadn't found the energy to touch in three weeks.

writing used to be your escape, but lately, the words wouldn't come.

you were exhausted, and when your thoughts started to spiral like this, jack was always the one person who could talk you down and make the world quiet down.

you didn't do this.

you never did this.

visiting jack at work was a boundary you both respected; his shifts were a meat grinder, and your own career kept you firmly in your own lane.

but three months of time wasting had finally worn you down to a raw nerve.

you had left early under the guise of needing to prep your classroom, but you had driven here instead.

you just needed to see your husband for five minutes. that’s all you needed.

see the thing was the intimacy between you hadn't died; it had just been compressed into tiny, desperate fragments. it was a hunger that never quite got satisfied, a constant, low-burning longing that made the edges of your vision blur with frustration.

it felt incredibly cruel, considering the two of you were newly married.

you had bought a huge house together, a beautiful, sprawling place with high ceilings and endless natural light.

you had both fallen in love with it initially, but lately, you were starting to really hate it.

all the spare rooms felt completely unlived in, a stark, hollow contrast to the explosion of color and life in your classroom.

at home, the silence echoed off the pristine, neutral walls in a way that felt incredibly heavy.

in moments like that, surrounded by too much empty space, your mind would wander to strange places.

you would think about how easy it would be to fill those rooms with the sound of a full-of-life little girl sprinting down the hallway, or a quiet, shy son reading a picture book in the corner of the living room. or both.

but the thought always dissolved as quickly as it came. the truth was, neither you nor jack wanted children.

you just wanted each other.

you wanted the house to be full of him, not empty square footage that reminded you of his absence.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

the heavy diamond and matching gold band sitting securely on your ring finger were a constant, beautiful reminder of the commitment you had made, but the physical reality of marriage had lately felt like passing notes in the dark across a giant, quiet home.

on the rare nights your schedules miraculously aligned, the air in those high-ceilinged rooms always felt thick with a quiet, starved urgency. the only night you had shared a bed in weeks happened three days ago.

you had been asleep for hours when the mattress shifted, the heavy, now unfamiliar weight of jack sinking into the sheets beside you.

even in your deep sleep, your body instinctively sought his heat, rolling over until your forehead pressed against his bare shoulder.

"hey," he had whispered, his voice a gravelly, midnight rumble. his hand had slid around your waist, pulling you against him. "i didn't mean to wake you."

"you didn't," you lied, blinking through the darkness, your hand coming up to trace the stubble on his jaw, your wedding ring cold against his warm skin.

the anxiety that had been simmering in your chest all day evaporated the second his skin touched yours.

you became entirely needy in those quiet hours, craving the sheer volume of his presence. "just missed you."

jack hadn't answered with words.

he had just shifted, his thighs tangling with yours, his lips finding the sensitive spot beneath your ear.

the lovemaking that followed wasn't fast or frantic; it was deliberate, and heavy with a quiet devotion.

in the dark, jack moved over you like a man trying to imprint himself into your very skin, his fingers locking tightly with yours against the mattress.

every touch was an anchor.

when he buried his face in your neck, his breathing ragged and heavy, you held him just as tightly, wishing you could freeze the clock.

but by 6:00 am, your alarm had shattered the peace.

you had to slide out from under the covers, leaving him buried deep in the mattress, only to return home to an empty house and jack already back in his scrubs, bracing himself for another overnight shift.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

now you walked through the sliding glass doors, holding a bag of fresh breakfast sandwiches. the atmosphere was rushing staff, and shouting, a stark contrast to the quiet morning routine you usually tried to maintain.

"well, look who finally graced us with her presence."

you turned to see robby with a chart tucked under his arm. his eyes widened in genuine surprise at your unexpected appearance.

it had been months since you had last set foot in the hospital. "wow. hey. i honestly forgot what you looked like." he joked as warm smile broke through his fatigue.

"hey, robby," you replied, offering a small, self-deprecating smile as you held up the brown paper bag. "i know it's weird for me to just show up on a weekday. i brought some breakfast. is he... is it a bad morning?"

robby let out a sharp, dry laugh, running a hand over his face. "it's a disaster. we had a six-car pileup on the interstate at 3:00 am. jack's been in surgery or running traumas since midnight." robby's expression softened, his eyes glancing at the bag. "honestly, he's at his breaking point. go on through. he would definitely love to see you today."

"thanks, robby," you murmured, a new layer of worry settling into your stomach.

you hadn't realized how heavy his own day had been. let alone his week.

as you walked toward the presentation boards, you had to pass the main breakroom. the door was ajar by a few inches. you were about to walk past when a burst of sharp laughter cut through the gap, making you slow down.

"oh, come on, you saw the way he handled that chest tube in trauma three," a voice snickered. you recognized the sharp tone of one of the floor nurses. "if dr. silver fox asked me to stay late for a 'private consult' in the call room, i would clock in for a double shift before he could even finish the beginning of the sentence."

"please," another voice chimed in, accompanied by the rustle of a plastic wrapper. "dr. silver fox doesn't do private consults with the staff. he goes straight home to his wife. though, god knows how she keeps his attention. he looks like he could chew glass and she looks like a slightest breeze could knock her over."

a cruel, low laugh followed. "maybe he likes them fragile. easier to manage between shifts. keep them desperate enough on the back burner and they will wait around forever while you play god at work."

the words didn't just hurt but they also confirmed every ugly doubt you had harboured for weeks.

fragile.

desperate.

easier to manage.

waiting around forever.

you hadn't even realized you had dropped the breakfast bag until you were already halfway down the hall, your chest heaving, your feet moving on autopilot until you pushed through the heavy fire door of the stairwell.

now, you sat with your knees pulled to your chest, your chin resting on your arms.

your right thumb was at your left hand, spinning the gold wedding band around your finger.

over and over.

a restless, rhythmic click of metal against diamond that only happened when the walls started closing in.

the heavy fire door groaned open above you.

footsteps descended the stairs—uneven and echoing with a rhythm you had know anywhere. you didn't look up. you just kept spinning the ring.

the scuffed leather of his work shoes halted on the step right below yours.

jack didn't say anything at first. his hazel eyes went straight to your left hand, watching your thumb mindlessly tear at the gold. he knew that gesture. he knew exactly what it meant.

"hey," he said. his voice was breathless, carrying the flat, heavy fatigue of a shift that had already pushed him past his limit. he lifted the crumpled brown paper bag in his hand. "and thank you. for this. i haven't eaten since yesterday."

"i dropped it on the ground," you whispered, your eyes tracing the grease stain on the bottom of the bag. "you should go back... i heard the floor is busy."

jack let out a long, ragged breath. he went to lower himself onto the step below you, but his jaw suddenly tightened as his prosthetic leg caught at a bad angle on the narrow concrete.

he paused, a brief flash of frustration crossing his face as he struggled to find his balance on the cramped staircase.

"i'm fine," he muttered quickly, his stubborn pride flaring as he tried to adjust.

you didn't argue.

you just held a steady hand out to him.

jack looked at your open palm for a split second, let out a quiet sigh, and grudgingly took it. he leaned into your grip just enough to steady his weight, easing his frame down until he was safely settled on the step, setting the food down between his feet.

he dropped his head into his hands, his broad shoulders dropping with sheer exhaustion.

"i told robby to cover," jack muttered into his palms. "if i have to look at another chart or have another administrator talk to me about something unimportant while we're short-staffed, i'm going to go insane." he slowly lifted his head. his eyes were shadowed and laced with a deep, private ache.

he looked at your face, his eyes narrowing slightly as he took in your expression. "you bolted away from the break room. what happened?"

he reached out, his palm securely covering your left hand, instantly silencing the frantic movement of your fingers. he squeezed, his grip tight but also comforting.

"nothing," you whispered, trying for a small, fragile smile to deflect. "just... overhearing the nurses. apparently, you're the hottest doctor on the floor. i had to see if the rumors were true."

jack blinked, looking entirely blank for a second as the comment registered. he let out a dry, incredulous huff, gesturing to his heavily shadowed eyes and the faint smudge of standard-issue hospital grime on his scrubs. "the hottest? i look like a corpse, sweetheart."

"shush," you murmured lovingly, leaning down just enough to press your forehead against his temple. "don't say that."

a soft, genuine trace of a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, and he let his head rest heavily against yours for a second. "pretty sure langdon still has better hair than me, even on a double shift."

the brief, oblivious deflection helped the knot in your chest loosen just a fraction, but the reality of why you were hiding on the stairs caught up to you.

"i shouldn't have come," you admitted quietly, your voice dropping. "i have my lesson plans to do but i woke up and the house felt too big. i just wanted five minutes. i didn't mean to bring my mess into yours. i heard what they were saying in there about how much space family takes up on a heavy shift, and i just—i felt like a burden."

jack's jaw clenched, a sudden, sharp anger flaring in his eyes, though it wasn't directed at you.

he shifted up one step, narrowing the space until his chest was inches from your knees.

he didn't let the silence hang between you this time. his hands slid up to your shoulders, his thumbs finding the tight, knotted muscles at the base of your neck.

he began to work them out with a slow, firm, and deeply grounding massage, his touch telling you everything his words hadn't yet.

his hand moved to your face, his thumb catching a stray tear before it could drop.

"don't do that," jack whispered, leaning forward so his forehead came to rest gently against yours.

"don't apologize for needing me, and you think you're the only one losing your mind? i am drowning down there. every person in this building wants a piece of me. they want a miracle, or they want a doctor." he looked at you, his eyes intensely raw. "you're the only person who just wants me as i am."

he leaned in closer, his lips brushing yours in a soft, desperate kiss that tasted like pure relief. when he pulled back just a fraction, he pressed a lingering, heavy kiss right against your forehead.

"i don't need you to be perfect, and i don't need you to be strong all the time," he muttered, his hands sliding down to rub comfortingly across your upper back. "i just need my wife. i feel like i live in this hospital and i'm just a ghost passing through our house. i miss waking up next to you so much it hurts. i need to know there's still a real life waiting for me outside these doors. you're not a chore, sweetheart. you're the only thing keeping me sane."

the weight of his words and the steady, warm rhythm of his hands against your back shifted something tight in your chest.

the distance wasn't a sign of failure; it was just a storm you were both weathering together.

"jack," you breathed, leaning forward into his space as the tension finally began to bleed out of your shoulders.

he pulled your hand up to press a brief, heavy kiss against your knuckles, right over the gold band.

he hovered there for a second, his arms twitching as if he wanted to wrap you up entirely, before he reluctantly let his hands drop back to his sides. "i want to keep holding you," he muttered, a small, frustrated edge to his voice. "but i know you've got to get to school. i don't want to make you late for work."

you let out a soft, breathy laugh at that, the heavy weight in your chest lifting just a little more. "i can stay ten minutes, i'm not going to be late."

"okay so we’ve got ten minutes," jack murmured, shifting so he could pull you against his side. his arm wrapped securely around your waist, his fingers idly stroking your arm as his breathing finally slowed down to match yours. "just sit with me."

you let your head lean against his scrub-clad shoulder, your fingers locking into the fabric.